


Fecundus

by moonblossom



Series: Pyrexia [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Omega!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Fertility Issues, Intersex, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Omegaverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds some documents that open up a can of worms he's not quite ready to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fecundus

**Author's Note:**

> Fecundus, latin:
> 
> 1\. greatly productive; fertile  
> 2\. _intellectually productive; prolific_
> 
> Warnings for vague discussions of breeding, mild infertility-related self-loathing, and heavy-handed gender imbalance metaphor. This is the only time Omegaverse-related pregnancy issues are going to come up in this series so if that’s not your bag feel free to just skip this one.
> 
> Thanks to alutiv for looking this one over!

There's something oddly distinctive about pamphlets from private medical clinics, John muses. Sterile white background, blandly attractive people smiling out at him from the cover, discreet sans-serif text in blue and green. Why's it always blue and green?

He picks them up off the kitchen table, more out of curiosity than anything. He's not particularly worried – Sherlock must have picked them up for a case or something. At least, that's what he thinks until he sees the titles properly. _IVF and You_. _Infertility Options_. And then the one that really sets John on edge, _Biological Surrogacy: For the delicate Omega in your life._

The logo is for one Rising Sun Omega Fertility clinic (the logo is a pseudo-clever piece of bullshit, the Greek character for Omega surrounded by dashes to look like a child's drawing of a sun, John assumes) and the contact information on the back leads to a rather posh address in Belgravia. Definitely private then. What is it with that place, anyway? John thinks he'd be quite happy never setting foot between Knightsbridge and Pimlico ever again.

Trembling, torn between anger and shame, he clenches his fist and crumples the stupid pamphlets into a wad of sharp corners and jagged edges. It matches the icy ball forming in John's chest as he marches into the lounge.

Sherlock is perched on the back of his chair, because he's Sherlock fucking Holmes and fucked if he's going to sit properly like a normal human being. His shoulders are tense and there are circles under his eyes, but John doesn't feel a single pang of sympathy.

"So that's it, then? Realised I'm fucking useless, have you?" John knows he's shouting, but makes no effort to quiet himself.

For one fraction of a second, Sherlock looks so flummoxed that John nearly forgets why he's angry, but before he has time to respond, the shutters are up. Sherlock's face is completely unreadable – nearly blank save for a trace of irritated distaste. His generic "I am surrounded by boring idiots" face. The defensive one hardly ever aimed at John.

Sherlock cocks his head in a practiced gesture that infuriates John further.

"Do give yourself a modicum of credit, John. You are not _entirely_ without your uses."

"No, but apparently you want something I can't give you. I fucking told you, Sherlock. I told you before we started any of this."

There it is again – that tiny trace of confusion, Sherlock's cool veneer transparent for the tiniest moment. John's legs wobble slightly and he drops himself into his armchair. The pamphlets, fuck them, are still in his fist.

"Oh!" Sherlock's face lights up. "Yes, of course. Well, then – no, you couldn't have known..."

Of all the things John does not have the time or the patience for, it's Sherlock's penchant for half-formed sentences that leave him lagging behind. He nearly throws the ball of paper at Sherlock's head, but catches himself in time. Sherlock's reflexes are such that he'd have caught it one way or another, but John isn't quite furious enough to resort to violence. He ploughs on, ignoring Sherlock's apparent epiphany.

"Why didn't..." He bites the inside of his cheek, willing his voice to hold steady. He's never felt particularly badly about his non-functional Omega bits before, but suddenly he feels bereft, like a vital, critical part of him is missing. "Why didn't you tell me this was something you wanted? Why did you lie?" His voice cracks on that last word, and he looks down into his lap.

In an instant, Sherlock has jumped off his perch and crossed the lounge to kneel at John's feet.

"Mycroft," he says.

John bites his lip and looks down at Sherlock. He's not entirely sure what he'd expected Sherlock to say, but that most certainly wasn't it. He raises one eyebrow, urging Sherlock to continue, and unclenches his hands in his lap. A pile of shredded paper and rumpled corners falls out. He's torn the fliers to bits without being aware of it.

"He brought those... things." Sherlock looks at the pile of rubbish with a grimace. That silly little horizontal crease is back between Sherlock's brows and John strokes it with his thumb before he can catch himself.

"My brother is under the misguided notion that it is somehow a duty of mine to pass on – and I quote – our genetically superior bloodline."

Despite himself, John smiles slightly. That does sound exactly like the sort of pompously supercilious thing Mycroft would say without a hint of irony. It's at that point that John realises he has absolutely no idea what Mycroft is. It was never really any of John's business, and it's never come up before, but now he's curious. He's about to ask when Sherlock shifts, leaning back and supporting his weight on his hands as he looks up at John.

"He is an Omega, John. Through and through." Of course Sherlock had anticipated the question. "As much as the romantic and reproductive statuses of my brother are something I'd prefer never to think about, it's not the sort of thing you can ignore when you live with someone."

John chuckles quietly. "Couldn't you just delete it?"

"It is such an intrinsic part of who he is, John, that no, I could not."

Something about this surprises John. If he'd been asked before now, pressed to guess or deduce or divine, he'd have assumed Mycroft was an Alpha. Something about the stereotypical old-world mannishness about him, the need to control everything. As John's thinking, Sherlock reaches out and strokes his knee.

"He does that all on purpose. He over-compensates. A necessary evil, I suppose, to be taken seriously in the world of old money and old politics. It's asinine, but there you go."

"I think I can understand that," John says, nodding slowly. "But if he's so concerned about your bloodline, why doesn't he...?"

Sherlock flaps a dismissive hand in mid-air. "He is under the misguided notion that his genes are somehow less valid, somehow diminished, because he is an Omega. Also, the only person he has shown any interest in lately is a certain Beta Detective Inspector. And there's a significant chance he wouldn't be able to fertilise. I suppose Mycroft would be pragmatic enough to go to a donor if he felt that his genes were worth passing along."

A light clicks on in the back of John's head. "He's jealous. Of you."

"He does his best to hide it, and he knows I think it's absurd, but yes. He has plenty of reasons to be jealous of me – my mind, my musical talent, my restraint." At the last one, John snorts out a proper laugh, and he realises he's no longer trembling or nauseated with anxiety. "But not," Sherlock continues, undaunted, "a random chromosomal turn of events. But then, Mycroft has always been a bit ridiculous."

"You may have many things, Sherlock, but restraint is not one of them."

Smirking, Sherlock nuzzles John's knee and wraps one cool hand around each of John's ankles, thumbs rubbing up just inside the hems of his jeans. "Let me show you how restrained I can be, John." Sherlock's voice is a low purr and John feels his heart-rate increase slightly, but he swats at Sherlock's hand.

"Really not in the mood, Sherlock. I've got other things on my mind."

"Useless things. I don't care about all that, John." He releases his grip on one of John's ankles to wave vaguely at the pile of shredded paper in John's lap. "I meant it when I said I had no interest in children. Unless..." Sherlock's eyes widen nervously, glittering celadon in the early afternoon light. "You do?"

And there it is – the crux of all the anxiety John's been feeling since finding the bloody documents. He should probably answer Sherlock, but he needs to figure this out for himself first. Sherlock's ability to read John like an open book is infuriating at times, but as he unfolds himself from the floor and stalks into the kitchen to make tea entirely unbidden, John thinks it's a blessing.

He's never really felt a drive to have children, never felt the need to look after anyone so entirely dependent on him. He's already got Sherlock for that. Admittedly, any hypothetical child could be as intelligent as they were beautiful; for a moment John imagines an alert, bright-eyed infant with Sherlock's heart-shaped lips and a head of curls, but fair dusty blond curls, a perfectly-formed little cherub. But even then, the interest is disconnected and vague.

All his life, he's been told that the most rewarding thing an Omega can do is bear children. The primary function of an Omega's body seems to be to bring more Alphas into the world. And really, isn't that the biggest pile of bullshit? Besides, John thinks, he's not an Omega. Not just. Alpha. Omega. Captain. Doctor. John Hamish Watson. All labels apply. He has already accomplished so much, and there's still plenty left to do.

Feeling as though a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders, he gets up and heads into the kitchen, where Sherlock is just pouring a mug of tea. In silence, he hands it to John, who nods gratefully. John wraps his hands around it, letting the warmth chase away the last of the chill in his hands as he leans against the edge of the table.

"Ta, Sherlock. And no."

"No?"

"No. I don't. Want children, I mean. Our lives are plenty fulfilling without feeling the need to succumb to some societally-enforced roles. Also, taking care of you is a full-time job."

Sherlock grins impishly and nicks the mug out of John's hands, stealing a long gulp of the tea.

"Oi, git." The familiar, comforting warmth is back in John's chest, expanding outwards and filling all the hollow empty bits leftover from before. He takes the mug back and places it on the kitchen table before pulling Sherlock in for a kiss that tastes of sugar and bergamot and home.

"Let me take care of you for once, then," Sherlock says as he pulls away. John searches Sherlock's voice for any hint of that low, rumbling, suggestive register and finds none. The look on his face is strangely earnest, no trace of his earlier attempt to distract John with sex. John nods and smiles.

"You can start by making me another cuppa, and not stealing it this time."


End file.
